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“Would you care for refreshments before takeoff?” Sergei asks, moving toward the bar.

“Vodka,” Z replies without hesitation. “Stolichnaya Elite, if my uncle still keeps it stocked.”

“Of course, sir.” Serge selects a frosted bottle from a hidden compartment. “Miss Rossi? Gentlemen?”

“The same,” I say, watching as he pours four crystal tumblers with the clear liquid.

Talon finally takes a seat beside Oz, though his posture remains alert. “How long is the flight?” he asks, accepting his drink with a nod.

“Approximately ten hours, sir,” Sergei answers, handing the last glass to Oz.” We'll be taking a direct route across the Atlantic, avoiding European airspace where possible.”

“Victor's paranoia hasn't changed, I see,” Oz remarks, swirling the vodka before taking a measured sip. “Still avoiding the NATO radar.”

Sergei's expression remains carefully neutral. “Mr. Petrov prefers discretion in all matters.”

“I'm sure he does.” I raise the crystal tumbler to my lips. The vodka burns a clean path down my throat, warming my chest. Despite the circumstances, I can't help but appreciate its quality—smooth with just enough bite to remind you of its potency. Like Victor himself, I imagine.

The jet engines whine to life, the vibration humming through the floorboards. A disembodied voice announces our imminent departure in both Russian and English, instructing us to secure our seatbelts for takeoff.

Z downs his vodka in one gulp, his throat working as he swallows. When he sets the empty glass down, there's a new tension in his jaw. “Nine hours in a metal tube with my uncle's eyes and ears,” he says quietly, just for me. “This should be fun.”

I reach for his hand beneath the polished table between us, giving his fingers a brief squeeze. “We knew this was coming,” I remind him.

The plane takes off with ease, as we climb higher and higher into the air until it levels off at cruising altitude.

It makes contacting my grandfather a tad harder. Every inch of this aircraft is likely bugged, cameras hidden in the glossy wood panels, microphones embedded in the plush leather seats. Victor's paranoia ensures we're being watched from every angle. Mikhail expects an update within hours, yet I can't exactly pull out the black tablet and start recording a progress video while surrounded by Victor's staff.

"Sergei," I call, my voice carrying the authoritative edge I've been practicing. “I'd like to freshen up.”

“Of course, Miss Rossi. The lavatory is at the rear of the aircraft, just before the private suite.”

I rise, smoothing the wrinkles from my skirt. "Thank you."

The lavatory is predictably luxurious—Italian marble and gold fixtures, plush hand towels embroidered with the Petrov crest. I lock the door behind me and lean against the sink, finally allowing my composure to slip for just a moment. The face staring back at me from the mirror looks foreign.

This might be the only semi-private space on the entire aircraft. Even so, I scan for cameras, checking corners and light fixtures. Finding nothing obvious doesn't mean they aren't there, but I have no choice but to take the risk.

I pull the black tablet from my purse, powering it on with trembling fingers. The screen illuminates with a soft blue glow,reflecting in the polished marble. I have mere minutes before my absence becomes suspicious.

Opening the recording function, I position myself against the wall, making sure the luxurious surroundings are visible in the frame. Evidence I'm on a private jet, headed to Russia. Evidence I'm following Mikhail's orders.

“I'm en route to St. Petersburg. I've gained his trust enough to secure passage on his private jet. When we land, I'll be taken directly to his compound.”

I lean closer to the camera, allowing determination to harden my features. “Join me in Russia. You’ll have what you want soon enough.”

The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. Mikhail needs to believe I'm committed to his revenge, that I'm willing to sacrifice everything, including myself, to fulfill his twisted legacy.

I stop the recording, quickly reviewing it before sending it through the encrypted channel Mikhail established. The moment the confirmation appears, I delete all traces from the screen and power down the tablet, returning it to my purse.

My hands grip the marble countertop as I steady my breathing. Each lie, each calculated move, brings me closer to Alex and Luca.

A soft knock at the door startles me.

“Miss Rossi?” Sergei's voice filters through. “May I offer you anything further?”

“I'll be right out,” I call, splashing cold water on my face and reapplying my lipstick with precision. Had you asked me if I ever thought I’d be willingly on a flight to Russia to play a game of chess with monsters, I’d have said you were crazy, but here I am.

When I return to the main cabin, Z's eyes find mine immediately, a silent question in their silver depths. I give him an almost imperceptible nod as I retake my seat beside him.”